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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964685">Hold Me Here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame'>WitchFlame (RachelMcN)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Binding Circles, Demon Summoning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Summoning, Summoning Circles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:22:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a summon sinks ethereal claws into you, it helps to have a nearby binding circle crafted by an angel to lock yourself within.</p>
<p>Crowley is grateful for the option. Aziraphale feels nothing but guilt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hold Me Here</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Edited for formatting. Apologies to anyone that may be receiving notices when I correct errors in my works; I'm not sure if AO3 sends updates for such things or not.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale’s voice faded out into the white static that was gradually encroaching over Crowley’s senses. He blinked muzzily against the haze trying to focus, to...think. A whisper of magic slithered around his wrist, its touch acrid and he still couldn’t think past the static but he was down to a fine-honed instinct. He threw himself from the couch in a panic, his body moving of its own accord – he’d hardcoded this response into it for <em>a reason</em> – scrambling for the angels nearest holding circle. Everything was white noise, blinding static, burning, <em>burning</em> as he vaguely felt the binding slipping over his form. His physical body bumped into the invisible barrier, stumbling back to the centre of the runic circle as heavy metaphysical chains lashed themselves to his demonic form, determined to hold him in his place, to root his form within their grasp. He dropped to his knees in the centre, hissing, his body curling in on itself. </p>
<p>Aziraphale was probably watching him by now, worrying. They both knew how this went.  </p>
<p>It all depended on the summon. If somebody wanted a demon, <em> any </em> demon then the spell would struggle with him but it couldn’t best the runic hold of a binding circle – it was a waste of effort, it didn’t <em> need </em>to. The compulsion would move on. He’d be left in peace. </p>
<p>If, however, they were summoning him <em> by name </em> ...well. He was probably shooting himself in the foot, if anything; willingly forcing himself into a tug-of-war between a binding circle and a named summoning was <em> agony</em>. Exhausting. But better than the alternative. </p>
<p>If a summoner calls for you by name, chances are good that they want something specific, that they have a goal, that you’ll at the very least last long enough for a hypothetical rescue from a hypothetical angelic acquaintance. </p>
<p>A random summon? Well, it wouldn’t be the first summoning Crowley had experienced where the goal is elimination of their demonic prey. It wouldn’t be the first potential summoning on church grounds. There was no guarantee that this summon wouldn’t be one of the ones to provide a 100% fatality rating within the first few minutes to whichever poor bastard was hooked. </p>
<p>He’d take a weakened front with the potential of rescue over a guaranteed slaughter every time. He bit back a scream as the tendrils hooked into him, beginning their struggle. Please, <em> please </em> let this be a random calling. Please, let it fail, let it move on, let it corral some other poor helpless bastard. Past the haze, the thick magical static and suffocating chains and tendrils, he could see Aziraphale . He flung a wing out haphazardly, wincing as it pushed up against the barrier but this was part of it, this was <em> important</em>, if Aziraphale was here. His angel reached past the invisible barrier, brushed gentle fingers over tightening chains as they struggled to hold him in place. He didn’t move them, didn’t interfere with them, Crowley didn’t <em> want </em>him to free him of them. Instead he brushed his fingers over a feather, pausing as Crowley shuddered and spat; felt for Crowley's essence within the feathered strands, and plucked it from his wing. </p>
<p>His angel would find him if he had to, Crowley trusted that. But having his feather, a still-pulsing essence of his freshly connected form, would make the whole process so much smoother. <em> Quicker</em>. The risk of it all was worth one singular feather. </p>
<p>As Aziraphale’s hand retreated, Crowley hastily re-hid his wings. It was one thing to show Aziraphale the appendages; quite another to have his potential summoner aware of them. The hooks tore at him, the bindings losing ground the longer it lasted. He could <em>feel</em> Aziraphale reinforcing the enchantment, as fresh chains were added, as they grounded him anew, layered suffocatingly over him. He thrashed but he couldn’t even manage <em>that</em>, the bindings having built to a crushing degree, keeping him pinned in place as the hooks continued to tear at him, fighting to find purchase on his captured form.</p>
<p>Mindless, blind panic overtook him then. It was normal, he’d review later once he had his wits about him again. Normal to assume that the bindings had snapped, that the summoning had taken place, that these suffocating enchantments were the work of his newly anointed captors. Normal to futilely struggle in helpless terror when he was too crushed to make sense of his surroundings, to make a plan, because they could have Heaven knew what at their disposal, could have <em>holy water</em>. </p>
<p>Time stopped making sense. </p>
<p>Eventually, after an eternity, he felt a chain shiver loose. Another, then another. The chains still bound him, but enough had vanished that his corporal form could remember how to breathe, how to see something beyond searing white <em> terror</em>. Aziraphale’s hand was on his back, grounding him in an entirely different way than the incorporeal enchantments. “It’s alright,” he was soothing, “it’s finished now, it’s stopped, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re still here. I’m here, you’re safe still.” </p>
<p>The angel couldn’t let him out yet. Crowley didn’t <em> want </em> let out yet. They had to give the summon time. Time to hunt, time to resume the hunt, if it <em> was </em>a slaughter the summoner was after. But it had worked, he was still here, still safe with his angel in the bookshop. Crowley shuddered, and surrendered himself to the chains he had willingly walked into, and to his angels reassuring hand upon his back. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-x-x-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Across from him, Crowley was slumping. He smiled lazily at the demon, keeping the conversation light as it appeared his companion might drift off. A sudden explosion of motion from Crowley had him sharply re-addressing his opinion. He threw himself to his own feet at the sight of the demons uncoordinated panic, focus tunnelling as he realised where Crowley was making for. <em>What</em> Crowley was running for. Before he could assist, the demon had already reached the binding circle, had willingly walked – well, more <em>blundered</em> – right into it. Aziraphale could see the chains swiftly wrapping around Crowley’s form, dragging him to the ground. When he focused, he could see the snatching tendrils of the summon as well. His poor demon was shuddering and jerking as the two arcane forces squabbled with each other, the summoning snapping for the prey held captive and restrained by the bindings he had drawn and powered by his own hand. </p>
<p>Roaming golden eyes swam muzzily across him and a moment passed before Crowley's flailing wing materialised and crashed awkwardly against the barrier of the runes. Aziraphale winced and reached out gently, regretful reassurances slipping from his vessels tongue as he felt the arcane pull entangling his demon. He ached to banish the chains from Crowley but it wasn’t an option. He couldn’t allow the snatching tendrils to whisk the demon away, and Crowley would never forgive him if he betrayed the trust granted him here and now. Crowley had asked him for this option, as close to pleading as Aziraphale had heard him, after one particularly harrowing summon. He’d had to free the demon twice now, from the binding circle he’d been convinced to ordain in the demons own home. </p>
<p>The guilt each time had ate at him, as Crowley was forced to wait, in chains, for Aziraphale to release him from an enchantment all his own doing. The demon hadn’t complained though, had <em> thanked </em> him instead as though his captivity, willing or not, had been <em> appreciated. </em> </p>
<p>The feather thrummed under his fingers, the quill pulsing with Crowley’s essence. His demon had asked this of him, too; if he was ever on hand when the circle was activated. It shouldn’t be necessary. None of this should be <em> necessary</em>. The feather sparked in his fingers as he plucked it; Crowley let out a sharp hiss. The chains he’d caused snaked tighter around the demon with his instinctive struggle. </p>
<p>Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to look away. Was <em>this</em> what happened those other times, as well? The times he wasn’t present for, times when Crowley had launched himself into Aziraphale’s trap and had to trust in the angels calligraphy and knowledge of the runes. Summoning was...was dreadful, but surely it wasn’t worth this? </p>
<p>Aziraphale shuddered, an unbidden remembrance of Crowley’s relief that first time he’d called him to let him out. The sheer <em> gratitude </em>emanating through to him as soon as he’d stepped through Crowley’s front door and found him sitting in the centre of the circle, festooned with chains and yet still a sharp grin worthy of the Cheshire cat across his face. </p>
<p>The lashing tendrils of the summon snapped at the chains and Aziraphale surprised himself with the quiet wave of hatred that swelled within. What had his demon suffered, to prefer this arcane tearing to the potentiality inherent in a summon? Crowley had asked this of him, and Aziraphale could not deny him, not when the demon knew better than he what the trade-off might be. </p>
<p>He placed his hand softly between the curves of the runes and bled his grace out into them, twisting new magicks into existence, adding to the burden his demon was already suffering. The current bindings may be enough to see the summon off; they had apparently sufficed before. He would not gamble though, not while he was here, not while he had the ability to ensure it, and a desperate burning need to prevent whatever imagined horrors Crowley was currently awaiting as he endured burning binds and snapping summons and waited helplessly to discover which torture won out. </p>
<p>It lasted far longer than was reasonable. Whoever was behind the summoning clearly had power in abundance, power to waste, or the generic summons that steadily unspooled more of itself in the air would have passed on with much greater haste than it was clearly inclined to. Somebody had found a cursed source of magicks perhaps, or a place of casting that enhanced their natural strengths. A group otherwise, a cult perhaps, and oh Crowley did not like those. Aziraphale cared little for them also, after the last time he had found Crowley bound within their midst, driven half mad with agony. He begins to understand a little better, why Crowley would willingly subject himself to his angels crushing chains.</p>
<p>More unspool, unravelling to constrict around the hapless demon, to pin him under Aziraphale’s regretful gaze. He can see the demon fighting, struggling against his hold. He swallows down the guilt, pictures the demon hissing and snarling as cloaked figures circle it with sage, with blessed objects, with <em>holy water</em> and he reflexively strengthens his binds, warring with the deadly strands, the persistent curse that threatens to steal it out from under his protective hold. The demon is quaking under his chains. He wonders if it still thinks this worth it. Whether it still trusts him. A chain splinters into ethereal dust and he forces a replacement into existence. </p>
<p>He can feel the demons panic like a solid thrum against his own being. It’s directionless, all-encompassing. It’s not welcoming the chains anymore, twisting desperately within their hold, as much as it’s able. He wonders if the previous summons lasted this long, while it writhed in his trap in its own home. He wishes it would stop fighting him. He’s not sure he’ll be able to hold the summons off for very long, once he acknowledges what he’s doing. He shoves the demons waves of panic aside, focuses in on the chains; replaces them when one withers away. </p>
<p>Eventually, <em>finally</em>, the summons retreats. The demon is a shuddering huddle under his thrall, raw and terrified but he is <em>still here</em>. Crowley is choking under Aziraphale’s binding, <em>Crowley</em> is suffering because of <em>Aziraphale</em> and his trance breaks. Chains are banished, ripped into ethereal matter as the horror of what he’s doing consumes him. Yet, he can’t bring himself to banish them all, can’t – <em>won’t – </em>risk losing Crowley, not after all he’s just <em>done to him</em> to keep him here, to keep him safe. </p>
<p>He reaches out to his demon to – to <em> Crowley</em>. He wants to reassure him, to reassure himself, that his – that Crowley – is still here. He wants to wrap the demon safe in his wings, to drag him from the circle and set him free but he can’t convince himself to do it. He settles for a solitary hand pressing against the demons back, mindless reassuring platitudes coating his throat as Crowley cowers, still wrapped in chains, bound and shivering in front of an angel he <em> trusted</em>. The demon shifts under his touch, shudders; the chains settle around Crowley as he surrenders beneath him, exhausted, probably unable to even move away and Aziraphale feels <em> sick.  </em> </p>
<p> </p>
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